Paying a Debt
by Rubedo the Crystal Blood
Summary: Night after night she's been borrowing. It's time to give it back. A revision of "No More Stolen Kisses" by Lucindra, written with her approval. Oneshot.


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_**~Paying a Debt~**_

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**Warning:  
The following content is rated OT for mature scenarios, and is NOT recommended  
for readers under the age of sixteen.**

**Disclaimer:  
****All content is intellectual property of Ichirō Ōkouchi, Gorō Taniguchi, and Sunrise.  
Additionally, this fiction is the original work of Lucindra, another ffnet author.****  
The author: Rubedo, the Crystal Blood; claims ownership in no form,  
and writes with full permission of the administrators of ff net.**

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_Paying a Debt_

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It was ridiculous. She ran a hand through his dark hair, watching his chest rise and fall in steady beats. He was not a dark prince, not a fabulous hero of the people. Quite truthfully he was more of a villain and yet, here she was, lying in his arms after a _heroic_ rescue. A smile played across her soft cherry lips, and she ran her slender fingers along the curve of his jaw. "_Really now_," she murmured softly, "I can't believe this oaf can even distinguish between a hissy fit and damsel in distress…"

Was she a damsel? She would like to think that he thought so. It was wishful thinking, but if she was the damsel, who was he, Hercules? Yes—she giggled—he was a young, boyish Hercules, playing around his father's temple, irritating the religious nuts who blindly worshipped their stone idols, leading his countrymen to sea without boats. That was when she remembered that he was only that: a boy. A young teenage boy was orchestrating all of this—this hate, this resentment, this conflict. A boy not even half the age of the Britannian emperor was causing discord and chaos among the entire nation of Japan, striking fear into the aged politicians of the era and bringing hope to the downtrodden and oppressed. One single boy, who could not even operate a Knightmare to save his life, or take down a single armed grunt bare handed. Slowly, she shifted forward and pressed her lips against his forehead, closing her eyes with satisfaction as he pulled her closed, unconsciously burying his face deeper into her chest.

Those golden eyes re-opened and looked down at a man who held her like a lover unaware, and wondered what words might transpire if he were to rouse, their bodies pressed closely together. Likely he would withdraw shyly, his cheeks flushing bright red. She grinned, thinking about how adorable it was to see him embarrassed. But it would ruin the guilty pleasure of sneaking in each night from its darkest hours to bond with him like this. The thrill would last only as long as she awaited apprehension. She entwined her fingers through his black hair and inhaled. He smelled like ashes.

Over the years he had taken liberties with his hair. Its wildness brought vulgar thoughts to mind, and she ground her teeth out of frustration, eyeing his neck hungrily. She imagined all of the things they might do in such a relationship. She could think of so many ways just to tease him that she felt a pang of remorse. All of her life she had made men fall in love with her, even after she had given up her powers for immortality. Here was a man who made her feel such things as she had never felt before. Or rather, that she wished she had never felt before. She had learned long ago to recognize these feelings and, likewise, had mastered the art of suppressing them. But for the first time it felt different, and she understood that this intuition was significant enough. Lelouche had something about him that made him different. Ironically it made him just like everybody else, but individuality was simply that. There was no need to bring philosophy into the equation. She had heard enough of that throughout the decades to know that it had no bearing. Philosophy could not, and would not, define irrational thinking. Was it irrational?

She inhaled abruptly as his hand ran up into her night gown—nothing new for his evening behavior, yet never consistent enough to cease surprising her. He slid his soft palms along her hips, and meandered along her stomach, warming her and bringing her pleasant tickling sensations, before settling between the lowest areas of her cleavage. She clenched her teeth to stifle a sigh of pleasure that might surely have woken him.

So _ridiculous_…

The "perfect" woman, with beauty and experience and… did any of it matter? What was it to Lelouche that she had lived for a hundred years? Would he care if she had been with handsome, attractive men, or that she had seduced rich and powerful world leaders in her lifetime? Would any of it matter if she wrote down for him all of the men she had ever loved, or how many of them had grown old and died, or how many of them still lived and yearned to see her again? It might, if Lelouche were like any of them…

But he wasn't. He was Lelouche Lamperouge. He was different. His stature bore no charisma that she might follow. There were no physical merits to be spoken of. He was a _virgin_ for God's sake, a _virgin_ surrounded by gorgeous women daily. Yet he was the only man who had ever, ever gone this far, and the first boy to make her heart flutter so uneasily. He began to mutter in his sleep, squeezing her gently, though unevenly.

A frown furrowed in her brow. Was he having another nightmare? It reminded her of how she ended up in this situation. In the beginning it had been maternal. She was certainly old enough to understand motherly urges, and followed them readily with Lelouche. When one night he had been having night terrors, she got up to check on him and found herself wrapped in his arms. At the instant that he clasped to her for comfort, his groaning ceased. He began to breathe heavily onto her neck as if panting. At some point, it became romantic, though she didn't know quite how, or even when such feelings developed. Very, very firmly she took his hand, squeezed it reassuringly, and guided it to her heart, enclosing those long, slender fingers around her breast. He rubbed his nose across her ear and squeezed, quieting down for several long minutes, before pulling his arm away to roll to the other end of the bed.

She exhaled a sigh of relief, having been on the verge of a low moan. Lelouche's hand had been pulsating slightly, repeatedly stimulating her. She turned red and began to massage the spot, letting the sensations echo. Free from his grasp, she sat up and looked out the window, where a full moon was made half by the oncoming clouds. She turned around and brushed some hair from his eyes, prompting him to roll the back and brush her hand with his, as if swatting an insect. She smiled warmly and kissed his lips.

How many stolen kisses would that be now? She had lost count long ago. As she did every night, she began to play with his lips, squeezing and sliding them between hers, giving herself just enough leverage to pry them open without waking him. But just like every night, she could not go through with it. The fear that he might awaken excited her, but the thought that her night fly advances might come as unwanted frightened her. What if he rejected her? Could he?

A hand on his, she knelt on the bed and bowed her head, as if in prayer to the almighty god slumbering before her. She was asking all of the wrong questions, and avoiding all of the right ones. Whether or not he accepted her feelings, she was not used to being told "no." The idea scared her. It was unfamiliar and stranger, so she took caution. He pulled his hand from hers, and combed his long fingers through her hair. Startled, she tried to retreat, but felt a firm grip around her wrist. For a second longer she delayed it, before looking into those sharp, piercing violet eyes.

Lelouche rose slightly in his bed, the clean white sheets sliding down his abdomen. She stared, pink-cheeked and glad that it was dark. "Two-hundred and seventeen, C.C," he murmured quietly, "That's how many kisses you've stolen from me, not including the ones that never met my lips. There may have been nights when I might actually have been sleeping, as well…"

"Does that include the very first kiss I ever gave you?" she asked, having a brief flashback. He said nothing, but kissed her as slowly as possible, giving her every opening to push him away. He chuckled,

"_Now_ it's two-hundred and sixteen."

"Take it seriously, stupid…"

He pulled her by the arms, easing her fluidly into his bed. Snaking past his shoulders, she freely felt over his back. This was natural. She was used to enjoying her men, just as much as she hoped they enjoyed her. It wasn't that she was addicted to pleasures of the flesh, but that she acknowledged just how powerful their gravitations could be. Was there any use in resisting, after all? She began to kiss the chin that was never shaved, while caressing the chest that lacked its masculine hair. At least his body matched hers, for once. Young men who interested her were hard to come by.

He watched in deep silence, or perhaps thought. "Don't tell me you have some master plan to win my heart," she spat, feeling hot under his scrutiny. When his forehead creased and he shook his head, she grew even more anxious, so he grasped her shoulders to steady her.

"Hold still," he told her, "You're trembling." Ironically, he whispered this into her ear, provoking more trembling. "Relax," he added.

"I _am_ relaxed," she grunted angrily.

"There must be an earthquake then," he replied, squeezing her nipple with a certain familiarity. She squeaked, unused to being so well treated. "I guess there's one advantage to getting molested every night. I know all of your sensitive points."

She couldn't say anything anymore. The bliss showed on her face. From her neck and back, to her breasts and apex she experienced such harmonic stimulation that drove her over the edge. When he was finished, she lay curled in his arms, trying to steady her breath. His eyes were gentle, if just a little bit playful. It was disappointing, but it was genuinely Lelouche. This was so, because she could see the vengeful fire that burned behind them. How she longed to come out from the cold…

Very slowly, she undid her attire. He lay still, watching, knowing full well she would dominate him. But they both knew who held the reigns. As she sat atop him, brushing her apex against his waist, he began to feel nervous. She started to laugh, though quietly, and cupped a hand around his cheek. "Say it," C.C commanded him.

Obediently, Lelouche Lamperouge replied, "—…"

She proceeded to wrap both lips around two distinct parts of his body. He closed his eyes back and groaned out of sheer delight. "—," he said again.

"Yes…?" she whispered passionately, looking up.

"I love you, —…"

She grinned. "I know that already, idiot." The sheets were somewhat dirtier now than they had ever been.


End file.
